Perfectly Adequate
by HP-Forever-XX
Summary: "What was the point of being perfect at something if that thing was merely being adequate?" A fifteen-year-old Rolanda Hooch, un-academic, unimpressive, perfectly adequate, struggles to find a field of magic that truly excites her. Although, perhaps there is one...


**Perfectly Adequate**

"Rowena." Phineas Nigellus Black didn't look her in the eye, instead staring down at the parchment in his hand, a bored expression to match his bored tone of voice.

"Rolanda," she corrected.

He did look up at her then. "What?"

"My name is Rolanda," she said, blushing faintly.

"Oh. Right," Phineas said disinterestedly, glancing back down at the parchment.

Rolanda Hooch knew she was nothing special. Muggle-born, un-academic… just a Ravenclaw. Phineas Nigellus Black, Headmaster of Hogwarts, was a true Slytherin. He did not take time out of his busy schedule to get to know the likes of such students as Rolanda Hooch. Those who had caught his attention—those he deemed worthy—were extraordinary students. Pure-blood. Ambitious. Slytherin.

"So"—he cleared his throat—" _Rolanda."_

The fifteen-year-old Ravenclaw tensed. She did not understand why it had been deemed necessary for every single one of the fifth-year students to have a 'career consultation' with the Headmaster, and much less why it had to be in his office.

Phineas Nigellus Black was intimidating enough as it was, but Rolanda had never set foot in his office before. Never a troublemaker; never an overachiever. As she sat, stiff-backed, on one side of his desk, him completely at ease on the other side, she longed for nothing more than to sink down into the floor.

She had never been one for attention. She was happy just passing by through life unnoticed. It had always been her nature.

"You are… a perfectly adequate student," Phineas said, still sounding bored and disinterested.

Rolanda perked up slightly at 'perfectly,' sinking back down at 'adequate.'

"You are predicted mostly 'A's in your OWL examinations," Phineas drawled. "And a few 'E's."

 _And no 'O's_ , Rolanda thought with a sinking feeling. 'A's and 'E's were all well and good, and she knew she couldn't complain. Not _really._ But would she really be content with simply being adequate?

Even if it was 'perfectly…'

What was the point of being perfect at something if that thing was merely being _adequate?_

"Yes," she affirmed quietly, dropping her gaze. She would be easily forgotten when she walked out of that office, she knew that. She wouldn't make an impression on the Headmaster, just as she hadn't any of her other professors. Chances were, she'd never make much of an impression on anybody she encountered. Nothing would ever set her over the edge.

"So," Phineas announced, "what would you say your strengths are, Rowena?"

"Rolanda, Sir."

"Pardon?"

"I, err"—Rolanda coughed nervously—"my strengths?"

"Yes," Phineas said, looking slightly irritated. "There's absolutely no indication from your records, about what you would thrive at. You are… _adequate_ at almost everything. What would _you_ say are your strengths?"

Rolanda was so thrown by the question that she floundered for a second, building on the Headmaster's impatience. "I, umm…"

What _were_ her strengths?

Phineas was right—she was no more than adequate at each of her classes. Nothing stood above the rest.

"I'm not… I'm not very good at written work."

"I didn't ask for your _weaknesses_ ," Phineas drawled.

Rolanda felt her face flush with heat. "I, ah, no," she agreed. "I guess, then, my strengths lie more with practical work."

"Manual labour?"

"Well, n—no, not exactly."

What Phineas had in mind when he suggested 'manual labour,' Rolanda didn't know. Raised by Muggles, her mind instantly leapt to that of builders, hauling around bricks all day, straining their bodies underneath the blistering sun.

She saw less than no appeal in that.

"Well, do you like performing magic?"

Again, Rolanda wasn't sure what Phineas had in mind. Of course she liked performing magic; she _loved_ it. Discovering her magical ability at eleven years old had perhaps been the greatest thing to ever happen to her. _That_ had set her above 'adequate,' as no other family member had possessed such a gift.

That feeling of uniqueness had ended abruptly, of course, the moment she had stepped into Hogwarts. Amongst a thousand other children with such talents, Rolanda had realised, once again, she was nothing special.

"I don't really like Charms," was all she said.

Though Rolanda would admit it to no one, she had what the Muggles called 'Dyslexia.' It wasn't anything worrying, of course—it wasn't a _disease_ —but she treated it like something dirty. How unfair—that she couldn't fully unlock her magical potential, simply because she was obscured by such a trivial, mundane hindrance as Dyslexia.

Rolanda struggled with words and English enough as it was, but spells? _Latin?_

It had been too much for her mind to handle. She couldn't rise above it, no matter how hard she worked. It was, and would always be, a permanent setback. It had seemed a cruel trick that she'd been placed in the house of Ravenclaw, renowned for its students of intelligence and thriving academic ability.

"What about defensive spells?" Phineas suggested.

"Wand-work is not my forte," Rolanda replied in a small voice.

"Alright, Herbology?" Phineas sighed, clearly growing impatient. "Or potion-making? They require almost no wand-work, verbal spells, or written work, and yet they're still practical-based."

Rolanda was not excited by either suggestion. Herbology? She'd never been much of a gardener. And as for Potion-making…

It was too precise an art. There were all those intricate step-by-step instructions. Her mind simply couldn't keep up.

But Phineas was watching her with a cold and aggravated gaze that seemed to penetrate her very soul. He did not have time to waste on such hopeless, undecided cases as the perfectly adequate Rolanda Hooch; that much was clear to her.

"Perhaps, Sir," was all she said, fearing a firm dismissal would only set him even more against her. At that point, all she wanted was to escape the office. And his condemning glare.

"Well, there has to be _something_ that excites you," Phineas growled, patience wearing incredibly thin. He'd clearly seen straight through her poorly articulated act. "What's your favourite class, Rowena? What _excites_ you?"

Rolanda didn't even try and correct him this time. What was the point? She would never make a lasting impression on a man such as Phineas Nigellus Black.

 _What excites you?_

A memory surfaced in Rolanda's mind—a sudden thought she had never pondered on, never once considered. She was surprised that it had so easily formed in her mind. But dare she speak such a wild thought to Phineas?

"I, err…"

"What is it?" he demanded, seeing straight through her hesitance. "Spit it out, girl."

"Well, Sir," she gulped, "there was _one_ thing…"

"And that would be?"

"Flying," Rolanda answered, dropping her gaze to stare at a spot on his desk. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks again.

"Flying?" Phineas repeated, perhaps even with a certain edge of surprise. "You play Quidditch?"

"No, Sir."

"You own a broomstick?"

"Err, no, Sir."

"Have you ever," Phineas asked, starting to seethe with irritability, "been airborne?"

"Only that which we experienced during first-year flying lessons," Rolanda replied, wishing once more that the floor would swallow her up.

She wasn't sure why _that_ memory had surfaced, exactly, but it stuck clearly in her mind. Wind whistling through her short hair, the sturdiness of the wooden handle tightly gripped in her gloved hands, robes billowing out behind her, airborne, weightless, _free._

She hadn't been spectacular at flying lessons. There were some students who'd been raised in wizarding families and had already learnt the basics of broomstick handling. But Rolanda had picked it up quickly and with ease, and what's more was that she had actually, genuinely _enjoyed_ it.

Flying lessons had easily been the highlight of her week. She had indulged in research in her spare time too, finding every aspect of flying fascinating—from the aerodynamics and science involved in broomstick design, to the detailed history of Quidditch and other airborne wizarding sports. She had read many a Quidditch article on the professional teams, the Holyhead Harpies being her favourite. She had quickly become, though certainly not the top, one of the more successful fliers in the class.

Rolanda had been saddened as she entered her second year at Hogwarts. Flying was no longer compulsory; it wasn't even an additional option. The only way in which to pursue it was to take up Quidditch. But Rolanda couldn't afford a broomstick, and she knew she lacked the training to even attempt a successful try-out.

She hadn't thought about it in years. It had been an interest that had fizzled out.

Or so she'd thought.

"Miss"—Phineas glanced down at the parchment again—" _Hooch._ You are telling me, despite the fact that you have _no_ experience, zero qualifications in the field, and haven't even touched a broomstick since you were twelve years old, that you seriously wish to pursue _flying_ as a career?"

"It's… it's what excites me," Rolanda mumbled.

"Don't waste my time, young lady. This is a career consultation and I expect you to take it seriously."

"But, Sir," she said weakly. How could she convince him she _was_ serious?

"The only worthy career you can get out of flying is as a professional Quidditch player. Which, in my honest opinion, is _not_ a particularly worthy career choice anyway," Phineas informed her in a snide manner. "And even then, to truly make something of yourself, you must be _exceptional._ Ambition," he exclaimed, "fame, money, _success_ —only if you are capable of achieving those things is Quidditch, or indeed flying, a worthy pursuit. And, judging by what I'm seeing here, you lack both the drive and the conviction to excel in this field. You would be, I feel, quite simply… _adequate._ "

Rolanda swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, Sir, I understand."

"You don't even have a broomstick," he scoffed.

"No, Sir."

"Right." Phineas shuffled Rolanda's bit of parchment back into a pile of countless others, no doubt more impressive than her own. Her records would be swallowed up in a sea of parchment, easily lost, easily forgotten. "You may leave, Rowena," Phineas said in the same bored voice he'd first greeted her with, as he set about rearranging things on his desk.

Rolanda pushed herself away from the desk in polite silence, timidly making her way over to the door.

"My advice to you is to give up on such a childish idea," Phineas loudly announced when she was halfway to the door, not even bothering to look up from his desk. "Perhaps you should consider banking. Gringotts is always hiring."

"Yes, Sir," Rolanda said politely. "Thank you, Sir."

As she turned once more for the door, Rolanda had decided upon three things. First, she was going to gather up as much of her money as she could find and buy herself a broomstick.

Second, she was going to sign up for Quidditch tryouts at the next possible opportunity.

And third, she was going to do everything in her power to prove Phineas Nigellus Black _wrong_.

* * *

 **Originally written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 3—Semi-Finals**

 **Team:** Holyhead Harpies  
 **Position:** Captain  
 **Task:** Write about your member of staff during their schooling at Hogwarts/other school (Rolanda Hooch)


End file.
